


Scent

by cutiebunny



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns (2012-2013)
Genre: Across the 2nd Dimension, Dimension Travel, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2020-06-25 06:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19740190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutiebunny/pseuds/cutiebunny
Summary: A girl wake up in Gotham with no memory as to how she got there. Picked up by outreach worker, she encounters Dr. Crane who takes a special interest in her and her secret. She catches the eye of a certain caped crusader who realise she knows more than she reveals and becomes entangled in consequence of meddling with fate.





	1. Nameless Woman

**A/N: I wrote this story about a year ago and didn’t upload them. I thought I lost this story but as I was going through my old files, I found it and decided to share it with others. Please enjoy.**

* * *

It wasn’t easy building a new life from the ground in a world you didn’t exist. From the beginning, the fate has been against her. She had no idea how she came to be in this world, a world that should have stayed, in utmost logic, fictional. She was 24 when she found herself lost in what she soon came to realise, Gotham. Two years has passed and it was the most difficult, arduous two years she’ll probably experience in her life. She had nothing other than a small backpack on her back and in the bag was her wallet, phone, key, few snacks and a water bottle. Thankfully her money was genuine enough to be accepted by the stores and cheap motels, but her cards she later found out the hard way, were ‘fraudulent’.

The little money she had on her didn’t even last her a full week and soon ended up on the street, begging for spare changes until a homeless charity worker found her rough sleeping in the alley next to the trash cans. She had been on the street for approximately six months or so, approximate because she didn’t really keep up with the time she’s been here. She didn’t want to move from the small area of street she claimed, a home she could call ever since she lost her first one. They half forcibly took her from her safe corner because she was young and hadn’t been on the street for a long time and more importantly, she was a young female. Being a young female in the street was a disaster waiting to happen, and she was grateful the most closest danger she got to was an assault. A fellow rough sleeper stole her bag and can of money she made on that day and he was more concerned with taking what she had than taking a step further.

“What is your name?” A kind looking woman asked in a gentle tone, “How old are you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she burst into loud cry. Crying, it seemed, was an everyday occurrence for her. She’d cry several times a day, whether she was eating, sleeping, doing nothing thinking of her life she had in her world, she had a job, her parents, two lousy but close brother and sister. She had something. It wasn’t much, but still she had something.

“Please help me.” She managed out in trembling tone.

The woman, taking her plea for help at face value, rubbed a hand down her arm in gesture meant to be soothing.

“Don’t worry, we’re here.”

* * *

“Anne?”

The hostel she was assigned in also had a mental health centre where group of clinicians would visit once a week to those in need. They suspected she had depression or some sort of mental health and had persuaded her to take part in group and one-to-one counselling session offered by the charity. She refused at first, counselling session required that both the client and therapist be truthful to each other which she absolutely cannot unless she want to be institutionalised. Not that she had anything to lose from being institutionalised; she’ll have a roof over her head, warm three meals a day, healthcare and somewhere permanent at least.

“Give it a try, Anne.” Emma, the woman who found and brought her in, grinned, “Everything you say would be confidential and having someone to talk to would be good for you.”

She didn’t know how she actually agreed to it, everything seems to happen in a blur to her these days but she was sitting with a doctor who could not have been much older than in the sofa who with glasses that framed his piercing blue stares that regarded her like a new specimen brought into his lab. She wasn’t much fan of Batman comic or movies or materials related to it, but she had seen the movies to realise who the man standing in front of her with the face of the familiar actor whose notable feature were his ocean blue eyes.

She couldn’t remember the actor’s name but she repeated inwardly that this man was not the actor, but a character who wore his face and a very different man.

“Hello, Miss. Reyes.” He gave her a smile that was supposed to make her comfortable but it didn’t reach his cold eyes and his smile was icy and impersonal, “I’m Dr. Jonathan Crane, please take a sit.”

He gestured to a small armchair in front of him and Anne took a step back.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” She said, feeling like a child who decided to be brave and offered herself to be vaccinated first among her peers only to falter at the sight of the needle that was more painful-looking than she had expected.

There was that smile again, she noted as he leaned back and said, “I understand you must be feeling much distress–“ _Oh you have no idea_ “–and perturbation from your recent experience but that is why I am here. Please, Miss. Reyes, sit down.”

This only wanted to make her run and disappear into the street. But something about his imposing stares and overall unnerving presence seemed to force her down into the armchair albeit with great reluctance.

He flicked through a folded paper tucked in the file before glancing up at her, “Before we begin, I want you to know that anything you or I say in this room will remain confidential. The only circumstance where I must disclose the information is if I must uphold my duty to protect and care for you and others or when consulting colleague provided that I first obtain your permission to do so and I will do my best to conceal your identity and any associated parties involved. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t much information about you, is there?” He gestured to the thin paper he held up.

The only thing she had given them was her name, age and earliest known month she remembered seeing in the newspaper while she was still on the street. She had no IDs and because of that, she had nearly been denied the shelter, but because there was greater risk for her out in the street, which made her a priority, they had taken her in although what must be done after was much more difficult, if not impossible. Like trying to find a permanent accommodation, background check or open a bank account, or applying for any government benefit she could be eligible for; the list was endless. She was a dead woman, but even a dead woman had some sort of record of her life if one dug for it. She was a non-existent dead woman.

Emma assured her that this was a common problem amongst her clients, that people like her were ‘pseudo-citizens’ because they had little to no proof that they actually existed on paper or system.

He closed the file, “Shall we discuss more about you before I do any assessment? It’s said that you cannot remember where you lived and that your IDs has been stolen, correct?”

She nodded.

“When is the earliest memory you have that you can remember?”

“…Six months ago.”

“When you first started rough sleeping?”

She nodded.

“Do you remember sustaining any head injuries prior to your memory loss? Any sign that you may have sustained such wounds, such as sensitivity in the skull area? Repeated episode of vomiting? Sudden bruising or swelling around the eyes or behind ears? Loss of hearing or double visions?”

Anne paused to think, it’d be easier for him to think she had amnesia from the injury. She nodded.

“What symptoms have you experienced?”

“Vomiting, umm..double visions, my head felt sensitive for few days like I’ve bumped it somewhere.”

He jotted down into his notepad.

“And where were you when you’ve noticed the gap in your memory.”

“I was just on the street with my bag.” She said, “I had some money but that ran out so I started to…” She felt her cheeks redden, it wasn’t the most dignifying thing to say you were homeless, “..Sleep rough.”

“And in your bag, what was in there?”

“My wallet and my phone.”

“And you had some form of IDs in your wallet before it was stolen?”

She nodded.

“Was there a driving license?”

She nodded.

“And in that, there was your picture with name and your date of birth?”

She nodded.

“There should have been your house address there as well, do you remember?”

She shook her head after faltering for a moment.

“Why? You must have tried to find your way back home, no?”

“I-I….it was far.”

“How far?”

“I couldn’t afford it.”

“And you can’t remember the address.”

“I forgot. I’m not good at remembering.”

“Before your head injury or after.”

“Even before.” She snapped, “Is this really necessary?”

His eyes slightly narrowed, as if he felt something amiss with her story, “Yes, Miss. Reyes. As your therapist, the only way we can work with each other is if we remain truthful to each other. That means telling me everything you know, and it will be confidential as I assured you in the beginning.”

“I want to go home, but I can’t, OK.” She felt her tears coming, her eyes notably blinking more frequently.

“Why can’t you?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Anne said, “I’m not even gonna say it because you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Well, I’m a psychiatrist.” He revealed and something in his eyes sparked, “I’ve seen my fair share of crazy.”

She shook her head in discouragement, “Not like this. Not like mine.”

“Entertain me.”

Anne glued her mouth shut.

She didn’t know how long the time past, glancing over her shoulder to look at the clock that hung facing him. The clock was deliberately positioned in such way that the client could forget the concept of time while they were in a ‘safe zone’ and therapist could covertly glance up at the time to keep track of his next appointment without making the client feel rushed or pressured. It was their job to manage the time and end the session appropriately.

“Is something holding you back?” He asked, ever so patiently, “If you could afford to go back, will you?”

“Of course I’ll go back if I could afford to, but I can’t.”

“What is it that you cannot afford?”

“I don’t even know.” She shrugged, unless there was a hero with magical power that could transport her into her world.

“What is holding you back?”

Anne shrugged once again.

“What are you afraid of?” There was a malicious glean when he said the word ‘afraid’.

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“It must be something.”

“You won’t understand.” She said, “No one can.”

“Allow me to understand.”

“When does this session finish?”

“That is my job, Miss. Reyes. I’m here to listen, not judge.” He had a way with words, Anne admitted, if she weren’t aware of what kind of man he was behind the cool façade, she’d probably open up her deepest fear to him.

“Well, Doctor, you can listen to my silent to the end of session.” Anne tried to relax her stiff form in the armchair, it didn’t help the armchair wasn’t the fluffy one but a very hard, cheap ones made with low quality leather.

She tried to look everywhere but him, his eyes following her movements like a hawk scanning its prey on the ground before swooping down to hook its prey in its sharp beak. Anne wished she could control the seeping nervousness that filled the room, she knew he could feel it because every twitch she made, small smile would form on his lips. He thrived in fear; it was why he did what he did.

Every second was agonisingly slow, much slower than the six months she spent on the street.

“Well, Miss. Reyes, it seems our time is up.”

Her shoulders relaxed notably as he wrapped up the session.

“I think we can schedule our next appointment next Monday, is that alright with you?”

“Thanks but I’m fine.”

“The one that asks for no help is the one that needs help the most. For your sake, I suggest we keep working with each other as we figure out the best way I can help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“It was nice meeting you, Miss. Reyes.”

She didn’t say anything.


	2. I’m Not Crazy

She wondered just how a person like Jonathan Crane didn’t lose his license. She might not have had any professional training on counselling, but she was sure some of the things he said or acted during their session were unethical. He loved intimidating her and focusing on her ‘fear’ that held her to the place she was in. She had asked after their first session if she could opt out on the counseling sessions or at least changes her therapist. Emma, although good-hearted and meant well, Anne knew she probably thought her ungrateful with the way she seemed to throw away the help that many people in her situation could not afford.

His probing seemed to worsen; its intensity was becoming increasingly disturbing. It was as if he was singling her out of many people within the hostel for his own sadistic amusement. She wished she could leave the hostel, that way she won’t be pressured into these counseling sessions which was only prolonging her pain.

Many times she wondered if she should just jump in front of the train or jump down from the highest building she could find because she knew she probably won’t ever go back to her world and if that was the fact, then she didn’t want to live anymore; but there was a small hope – futile as it may be – that maybe, just maybe, if she waited out, she can somehow, by whatever miracle, get back to her world. It was thoughts like that prevented her from making that jump. Or cut.

But her memories of her life back in her world were fading; an elusive dream now. Her crying episodes weren’t getting any better and she decided to set out and get back her stolen wallet. She didn’t care if he kept everything he took, as long as he was willing to hear her out and at least give back the family picture she had in her wallet. That’s all she wanted. All she needed.

With Emma’s permission and curfew set to 6 P.M, she headed out of the hostel. Anne made sure she memorized any outstanding building near the hostel, wrote the hostel address on her palm in case she lose track and repeated the directions she took.

Trying to memorise the direction she took while trying to remember where Emma said she was found was really trying her memory. She became lost a few times but she worked up the courage to stop a local-looking passing-by pedestrian to ask for the direction. The hostel was situated in The Narrows, the worst and crime-riddled part of Gotham. It was a side of large, wealthy city that the famously rich and privileged wanted hidden and under the radar from their little bubble wrapped world.

When she did arrive at her ‘home’, it had already been staked a claim by another rough sleeper who treated her with hostility at the potential threat to his now home. She understood his protectiveness of his home and so left him in peace after a brief questioning and vague answers. The man that assaulted her, she remembered, made his way down and she followed the very same rocky path, making sure to carefully examine the alleys and hidden corners.

Anne’s stomach rumbled and her legs muscles twitched in protest for rest as exhaustion took over. She had no idea how long she walked but she couldn’t find the man she only had a brief glimpse to. It was probably over 6 P.M too. She toppled against the wall, burying her face in her arms and letting out wail at the injustice she’s been given. She didn’t know what she did to deserve this punishment, certainly there were much more people out there that deserved this than a girl with low paying job living the life to the best she could.

“Anne?” She heard a familiar voice from the distance.

Anne’s head jerked up slightly at the sound of her name, but she pretended she was trying to shift her head to a more comfortable position when her brain matched the voice to the face.

“Anne, I know you heard me.” He had taken to forgo the formality during their second session, because he knew just how much he bothered her with using her given name with such familiarity.

She wiped away the tears with her hoodie sleeves and gathered the courage to look up.

He smirked as his eyes met her blood shot eyes, “What are you doing out here so late? It’s unsafe.”

She stood up, dusting the dirt from her jeans, “I just came out for a fresh air. I’m going back.”

“It’s late and dangerous for a lone woman to walk all the way back to the hostel, Anne.” He said, “Get in the car, I’ll drop you off.”

“No.” She said it too quickly.

“Anne, you’re safer with me than you are out there.”

She doubted that. “I’m fine.”

“Anne.” His voice grew hard and cold, lined with irritation, “Get in, or I’ll make you.”

Don’t let him control you, the voice said to her. She began to walk the opposite direction his expensive car was facing. She could hear the car moving and screeching to a halt as it made a harsh U-turn before speeding slightly to stop at few feet in front of her.

The psychiatrist stepped out of the car and opened his passenger door before approaching frightened Anne. She stepped back as he stepped forward, then his arm lurched out and caught hers’ in harsh grip.

“Anne, get in the car. Listen to your therapist.”

“I don’t want you as my freakin therapist!” Her protest was weak and futile against the man’s naturally superior physical strength as he effortlessly dragged her onto the passenger seat, buckled her seat belt, tightening it taut in warning and shut the door and made his way to his own seat.

“Now, Anne, we’ve been making great progression. You need my help.” He reasoned, buckling his own belt.

Anne buried her face in her hands, wishing the man would just disappear into oblivion. Then sound of shuffling, and he was speaking on someone over the phone.

“Hello, Emma? This is Dr. Jonathan Crane,” He paused, seemingly letting the woman over the phone speak, “I have Anne here with me, I’ve found her lost in the street…yes, she’s safe. I’ll drop her off at the centre.” He pressed the end call button and tucked his phone inside his suit.

“Can you tell me why you were here out so late?”

Anne took the time to compose herself before she said anything – at least in front of him she had to think before speaking.

“I-I was just looking for my stolen wallet.”

“And you thought going around the dangerous street, alone, was a good idea?”

“I..I just wanted my wallet back.”

“And you weren’t afraid something..unpleasant might happen to you?”

“I just want my wallet back.”

“What’s in the wallet that is so important to you?”

“My family photos.”

His car stopped in front of an unfamiliar building, not the shelter he told Emma he’d drop her off at. Anne’s breath hitched and her hands on her laps felt clammy with sweat.

“Where are we?”

“You haven’t had dinner right? I thought it’d be better if I give you back to Emma with full stomach than an empty one. Besides,” He checked his watch, “The dinner time is over back in the centre.”

“I’m not hungry.” She adamantly said, then as soon as proest left her lips her stomach growled. She could not believe out of all possible situation, her body decide to betray her in utmost possible cliché way.

“Perhaps in your mind, but your body says otherwise.” He tilted his head to her stomach, “My treat.”

By the time Anne came back to her senses, she was sitting on the dinning bench as he ordered the food for her. She really didn’t know what made her such an amusing toy out of others. It was clear he was toying with her.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He questioned while maintaining that cryptic smile, eyes darkening.

“I said I don’t need any help, but you keep on forcing me to attend the sessions.” She answered, although it was a very indirect way of responding to his question.

“Some needs persuading.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need counseling; I don’t need you.”

“I’m the _psychiatrist_ here, Anne,” Reminding her, with emphasis on that single word, to remind her of her standing, “I’m only doing what’s best for you.”

“And forcing me to partake in something I don’t want to do is _ethical_?” She retorted, eyes narrowing in challenge.

“Sometimes, under certain circumstances with certain patients, ethicality must be bent for the sake of their well-being. I, as your therapist, am bound to that duty.”

“I’m not crazy; I can think clearly!” She slammed on the table, earning worried glances from the servers. They were the only patron in the small diner and when she caught his subtle insinuation, she had lost some of her composure. She wasn’t crazy, she was just confused and alone and scared and frightened by what she was going through. Who wouldn’t be, right? If they found themselves transported into some movie or comic or whatever dimension this was, who wouldn’t be so..unnerved?

“Is everything alright?” Their server asked, holding plate of the food and tension in her face. The white haired Asian lady, plump, tanned in white-and-red checkered knee length dress gave her the glance that she knew something was not right and she was willing to get help.

“She had a bad day. I’m her therapist.” The psychiatrist intervened before Anne could say anything further, swiping out his hospital staff ID to the waitress. Immediately, the concern on the woman’s face melted away and replaced with look of fallacy as she seemed to re-assess the situation between the pair.

“Oh,” The waitress smiled in relief as she put the plate of burger in front of Anne and coffee in front of the doctor, “Right, that’s unfortunate… I hope you feel better, sweetie. Enjoy your food.”

Anne attempted a smile but it came out as a side lopped frown, there was no point of getting angry at someone who had nothing to do with the root of the cause. As someone who worked in customer-orientated service before, she was always careful how she acted toward them.

“Thank you.” She bit big, making sure to chew slowly so that she won’t have to speak and he won’t ask.

He silently sipped his coffee, eyeing her every movements, measuring her every little quirks as if trying to figure her out like one would in some sort of overt observation experiment. She felt like some rat in a cage and him, a scientist who placed various stimuli inside the cage to try and pry out specific reactions from her.

“Do you remember anything about your family, Anne?”

She stopped chewing and started to cough. He pushed the orange juice toward her with his knuckle. Anne gulped down the dry food, nearly spitting out the drink as another fit of cough overcame her.

What does she say? What can she say?

“I-I think so.”

“Think so?”

“I have flashes of them. Sometimes.” It was true, she had flashes of them but those flashes were becoming blurry now. It wasn’t a matter of remembering, more of forgetting. She was afraid her lies, her greatest fear would become true the longer she was here. She needed to get out of here.

She was lost in thought when she asked him, “Are you done with your coffee?” She piled up her plates, putting used fork and knife on top as she gathered up his empty cup and used tissues to placed it next to her cutlery and wiped down the table. She had worked as a waitress before she got a new job at the city library few months before she came to this world and it had become a habit of cleaning plates up in convenient way for the waitress to take them away. He took in the habit, but made no attempt to point it out.

“Let’s go, I’ll drop you off.” He said, sliding out of his seat after putting a twenty dollar note on the table. The burger and the coffee probably cost him ten dollars and it wasn’t everyday you’d see someone leaving a ten dollar tip, particularly in a place like this.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silent. She was grateful, at least. Finally, a long overdue peace she deserved.

She must have fallen asleep; a hand was shaking her awake as she felt the coolness of the outside temperature on the window she was leaning into. Her mouth was probably gaped open the whole journey. How embarrassing.

“We’re here.” He said, “You travelled quite far.”

She wordlessly got out of the car, heading into the hostel when she heard him call her from the window of his car.

“I’ll see you soon, Anne.”

She ignored him and entered the hostel.


	3. Acedia

Emma was notably upset and angry when Anne came in. The caseworker emphasised how dangerous the neighbourhood was for a lone female like her and how she was worried that she wounded up as a one of many casualty rates that was ever so growing in The Narrows. Truthfully, she didn’t really feel anything. Didn’t feel this was real. Her mind refused to come to terms with it. She stayed silent all the while Emma was ranting off about The Narrows, the danger, her recklessness with her safety and wellbeing.

“Tomorrow, we’ll visit the station to see if we can do something about your IDs.” Emma said as she calmed down.

“Okay.”

Her curt reply seems to soften the edge of Emma’s fury that saw a poor, orphaned girl who had lost her memory, her life, her family and being difficult was her way of coping.

“I hope you thanked Dr. Crane for doing what he did. My stomach still drops at the thought of what would have happened if he hadn’t found you.” She reminded, “You’re lucky he happened to be there.”

“Is the counselling really necessary?”

The frown deepened, her stares accusing.

“Anne.” Her voice hardened.

“I’m going out to find my wallet.”

“I don’t think–“

“I-I just want my picture back. That’s all I want.” Her voice was almost pleading, desperate.

“We can go together tomorrow.” Emma said with a final tone and proceeded to put on her jacket without waiting for Anne to reply.

They spent rest of the next day day, searching nooks and crooks of The Narrows. Emma took her car along to widen the search parameter when they were done with one area. It was dark when they came back to the centre, exhausted, empty handed and faltering hope.

That night, Anne laid in bed, staring at the ceiling as the cold emptiness crept up on her.

* * *

She sat on the chair as Emma went ahead and spoke to the officer in the reception. Anne observed the officer’s countenance, watching it slowly morph into annoyance and Emma’s voice becoming louder. Then a passing-by police officer intervened, and Emma seemed to recognise him as she greeted him with a warm hug, calling him by the title and name, ‘Officer Blake’.

He turned back to his colleague on the table, chatted something to him briefly before he followed Emma toward where she was sitting.

“Anne, this is Officer Blake. He’s been a tremendous help to people like us when others couldn’t be asked.” Said Emma pointedly, rolling her eyes toward the officer in front.

The humble looking man gave her a small smile and offered his hand for a shake, “Hello, Anne. I’m John Blake.”

“I’m Anne Reyes.” She greeted him as she stood up from the hard chair.

“Let’s talk at my table.” He jerked his head toward the office entrance.

She and Emma took a seat across Officer Blake as he put two mug of coffee in front of them before taking a sip of his own. He logged into his computer and waited for the system to load.

“So, her bag containing her IDs were stolen, no documents of any sort that could tell her where or who she is, and she cannot remember anything beyond the last six months she was found.” He summarised as he wrote them down the information on the new file case.

“Yes.” Anne told.

“Don’t worry, Anne.” He consoled, “I’ve had many cases like you, it’s a difficult road but I promise I’ll do my best.”

Anne immediately had taken a liking to this man. She knew who he was. He was probably, the most honest cop next to Officer Gordon as well as the predecessor to the Batman’s legend.

“The first thing I’ll do is I’ll take your fingerprint and run it through the system. I’ll also look for her dental and medical record since that’s what many people have compared to the fingerprints and search through the missing person database matching your description.” He explained to both, occasionally giving her an encouraging smile, “If I can’t find anything, then this is the most difficult part, Anne. You’ll have to go to the local court in Gotham for a petition for a name change. The court would hold an evidentiary hearing to determine whether there’s any reason to believe she’s running a scam or anything linked to criminal activities, and this they might call for testimony from her doctors and local authorities, like us. If the court is satisfied that you are who you are and there aren’t anything suspicious, they would issue an order establishing your legal name and an arbitrary legal date of birth in the ballpark of the age you said you were. That order would take the place of birth certificate. But you’d probably be in for some wrangling when you try to get a job to try and get various institutions to accept it as such. Unless you can recover the stolen IDs, than it’d be a much simpler process.”

Emma nodded, “How about citizenship?”

“Well, that can only be ruled upon by a federal court, not a local one. You’d have to hire a lawyer for that. But one way you can try is to apply for a US passport, using the court order as ID. They may or may not refuse the issue of the passport, if they refuse you, I’ve seen some suing the Government in federal court for an injunction declaring they are a citizen and thus, entitled to a passport. Anne wouldn’t have any evidence other than her otherwise unexplained presence on US soil plus whatever relevant cultural referents might have survived her amnesia. I think it’s probably enough to make out a prima facie case. The Government could oppose the suit and take a position on what her immigration status ought to be. Obviously they’d see Anne and point out the fact that she could be an illegal immigrant but they have to come up with some evidence that she is here illegally.”

“How long have you been working with Emma?” Anne asked.

“Ever since I’ve became a cop.” He said with a proud smile, “I was an orphan and went through similar system.”

Anne smiled, she didn’t know.

Hope. Was it worth it again?

“Shall we start by taking her fingerprints?”

* * *

_-Present-_

“How are you feeling today, Anne?”

Her head roll to the direction of his voice, sight blurry that his figure was just a dark blob from the bed she was chained in. She had been dreaming about her very first step to settling down in the new dimension. Anne needed Officer Blake more than ever.

The crazed doctor sat on the foot of her bed, rubbing a slow circle on her bare ankle as he examined his special patient. She had no idea how she became a prisoner, didn’t know where she even was, didn’t know how long she’s been here. She must have become unconscious after hours of screaming. Her throat felt raw and dry.

“We are making a very good progress, Anne. You should be happy.” He gently pulled her up, “Now, we shouldn’t neglect to eat. I’ve brought your favourite.”

A burger. Just like the one she had in the diner.

Anne lay back down, pushing away his arm from her body. Him and his sick obsession with fear. Fear. Fear. Fear. She hated even the letter F.

The mad doctor sighed at her stubborn refuse, “You know trying to starve yourself to death won’t work. I have the necessary equipment to tube-feed you if that is what you wish.” He pulled her back up and placed the plate on her lap.

“I…” Her throat ached in protest and she tried to moist her mouth with her saliva but without food or drink for the past days, swallowing air only pained her throat more.

He turned toward her, as if he was keen to hear her question.

“I’m n..not hungry.”

“Of course you aren’t. You haven’t eat anything in the past day and a half, you got used to it.” He told her as he forced the plate on her.

“You never asked why I brought you here.” He added, his eccentric blue eyes meeting her dull dark brown eyes, “Or why I’m doing this. Drink.” A cup of water tipped back into her lip and she drank it without a fight.

The cool sensation ran down her throat in delightful shiver and her mouth was moist again.

“You never ask questions.”

“What’s the point?” She replied to his question for the first time, “Scarecrow.”

She wasn’t an idiot. She wasn’t that dumb girl in some horror/thriller movie in kidnapped-by-serial-psycho-killer situation who’s tired of victim shit and tries to drop a crazy-ass bomb on them without knowing what it is.

Having experimented with his equally deranged patients, emerging virtually unscathed, the ‘good’ doctor retained a variation of method to disarm and react to situations. An observer, it allowed him to fully gain analysis of details, and thus allows for predictability to turn her attempt in survival to their downfall. His emotionless features, from a mere single glance it’s unknown what transpires in his mind, would allow for unforeseeable counter. A man like does not intend to be vulnerable – and it’s a terrifying, deadly concoction.

He smiled as if he was pleased by her address toward him, “You’re the first patient that referred me as Scarecrow, rather than Dr. Crane.”

“I don’t see Dr. Crane.” Anne answered.

“Eat.” His tone was gentle.

_-End-_

* * *

“Have you made any progress on your memory?” The therapist asked.

Anne had taken to drawing to avoid the awkward silent and as a way to pass the time. She was shading in a darker grey on her character’s hair when he leaned forward to take a glance.

“A comic character?”

“It’s _manga_.” She corrected, emphasising that there was a noticeable difference between the two.

“It’s a lovely picture, Anne. Do you like to draw?”

She didn’t say, just kept on colouring in her characters.

“What are you trying to hide, Anne? What are you afraid of?”

Her pencil stopped and her nonchalant expression stiffened.

“I’m not hiding anything. I just don’t want to attend these sessions anymore.”

“The sooner you cooperate with me, the sooner these sessions will be over.”

“Well what do you wanna know?” She tucked the pencil between her notes and closed them.

“This isn’t about what I want to know. This is about you – what you want to talk; what you need, and I adjust my role around that.”

“I’m just going through a difficult time. I’ll get over it like I always do.” She won’t. Probably not. Not for this one.

“Always do?” He noted, “How did you managed to overcome a difficult circumstance in the past?”

“How do _you_ overcome the difficulties in your past?” She questioned back.

The corner of his lip twitched. She wasn’t sure if it was a smile or contempt.

“This isn’t about me.” He reminded her, “What kind of difficult circumstances did you experience?”

“Normal teen stuff.”

“For example?”

She shrugged, flaring out her fingers in the air to convey her disregard.

“You seem much more down. Why?”

“I’m not going to get home, even if I get my memories back.” She muttered as she remained transfixed on the sunlight shading into the room.

“What makes you think that?” He asked.

“I just know.”

“And from which assumptions has those thought been made?”

“It’s something I can’t share.”

“What is stopping you?”

Think of something else to talk about. Too close.

“I want to talk about something else.”

He blinked and looked up from scribbling his notes, “OK, what do you want to talk about?”

“I remembered a bit about my family.”

“That is good. What do you remember?”

“I have a sister and a brother, and a mother and a father.”

“A nice big family. Anything else?”

“I’m the middle child. We liked to go away for a picnic every weekend.”

“Sounds fun.”

* * *

_-Present-_

She felt him watching. The little cage, some sort of makeshift hospital room, she was in was her ‘home’ now. The small area was equipped with a bed, a shower curtain-style bathroom and necessary products to keep her clean. When she woke up, she’d find food and her clothing for the next few days, usually a simple dress, on her bed. She wasn’t a damn doll.

He’d bring her food, three times a day, and it was mostly same. Dull, bland hospital food. Then, always in between an adequate period of rest, she’d be ‘gassed’ by the ‘Scarecrow’ and he’d stand there, mask over his face, observing as she flailed and scream and cried in panic and fear from the images that wasn’t there. She hated how his mask and voice seemed to disorient into something demonic.

He said it was a very small, controlled, diluted dose, unlike the ones that he gives to his other patients, and how long she had been under the influence of differed each time. Occasionally it was ten minutes, sometimes twenty, sometimes forty and rarely an hour.

At the beginning, her hands and ankles have been shackled. But once she fought him less and less, he removed the chains around her wrist and one on her ankles.

“You learn so much faster than my other patients.” He complimented her as he began to see the reasons behind her seemingly compliant behaviour, “But you’re not broken. Not too much. I’ve made sure of that. You’re much better intact.”

She wasn’t sure he was right about the latter. She had given up on living. If she lived, she lived. If she died, she died. Let her life wash up along with the waves. She would embrace death fully. Her being here was a curse and she’d probably go to hell too. Rather suffer in hell for all eternity than draw it out longer living.

“I know you have some big secret,” Said Crane, “You were aware of who I was from the beginning. That’s why you were so guarded. I’m not in a rush; sooner or later, I will find out.”

She looked at him and said, “I don’t like the style of this dress.” 


	4. Munchausen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Munchausen: Factitious disorder imposed on self, formerly Munchausen syndrome, is a type of mental illness in which a person repeatedly acts as if he or she has a physical or mental disorder when, in truth, he or she has caused the symptoms.

Anne didn’t even bother to hope for the miracle when Emma got the call from Officer Blake about the case’s progress. Emma seemed optimistic through their ride to the station as she was confident that there must be some sort of trail. After all, it was so much harder to live under the radar than be caught in one these days. He greeted them with a welcoming grin at the entrance and it seemed as if he had good news for them. Then she and Emma knew what the verdict was even before they were seated by the changed troubled expression he had as they walked to his table that was situated in the far back corner.

“Nothing.” Blake said in disbelief. He stared at his computer screen, shaking his head as if something didn’t fit right, “Absolutely nothing. No DNA, no finger prints, no medical records. Nothing. I don’t doubt your story, Anne, please don’t take it that way but as an officer I have to ask, did you attend school? Has your parents ever taken you to a hospital? Did your mother register your birth? It would be really helpful if you can remember as much as you can.”

Anne shook her head partially in apology as she hated lying when he was already surrounded by so many deceptions.

“I’m sorry.”

She heard them sigh. Emma fidgeted nervously.

“What can we do, Blake?”

He let out a deep breath he was holding, “Perhaps the local court way? For now, we have to build up your identity. This means having as much as many people to be able to attest that you are who you are and the longer they’ve known you as ‘Anne Reyes’ the better as well as having your name in some sort of documents. It means getting her out into society. Realistically, it’s going to be a long time before you have any form of ID.”

Anne smiled as if to say she was alright and for a short moment, she couldn’t understand why they looked at her that way. Blake handed her some tissue he pulled out from the cardboard box. Anne frowned. Was there something on her face? Tentatively, she brought up her fingers to her face. There was wetness sliding down her face. She was crying.

Strange.

It was supposed to be a smile.

* * *

_-Present-_

He liked fucking with her mind. Well she liked fucking with people’s mind too despite lacking his years of experience and tactics he had built up. He was a wretched man with an eclectic span of cognisance, a cosmic capacity to sway the barest of aversions to ameliorate any occurrences to his advantage. The mad doctor had an eerie way of goading sanity to irremediable calenture.

Sometimes she wondered what he wanted from her. Why he kept her around like some pet. For what reasons, was it for the same reason people buy a dog to be their life-long companion? Or for something he could reside his control over it? Or was she just a mere experiment rat kept around until he got what he wanted and threw it out into the biohazard bin? Psychology was never her favourite.

That afternoon, he brought in a new dress – a much more stylish and in colour that suited her tanned brown skin tone.

“You’re right,” He said as he regarded the said previous dress hooked on his finger, “It doesn’t suit you at all.” He let it slide down his long finger and pool on the floor like you would with the food you tasted once but didn’t like so it had to go. The dress was expensive, she checked. All dresses were. They were high-end brands. She didn’t even need to check the labels, although she did few times and immediately recognised them as the names that dominated the fashion industry, she could tell by smug fit and softness of the fabric that you could only get from those who cared about the brand’s reputation and standing among their equally important and famous clientele.

“A bit creepy you know my exact size.” She commented.

“You can be assured I did no unsavoury acts whilst you were unconscious.” He smirked in a light hearted manner although there was seriousness in his voice.

There were times he was playful like this. It seemed he enjoyed teasing her.

“I know you’re above those sorts. You don’t have to prove me anything.”

He genuflected beside her bed so that he was in eye level with her. She could never imagine how it was possible for some people to be born with such blue eyes. She was envious of them. They were so beautiful and rare compared to her painfully common dull, blackish coloured eyes.

For the first time, she felt him touch her with his warm palm against her cheek. She wasn’t naïve to the sudden change of air between them for that moment.

“Would you like to see my mask?”

Inside she was screaming. Not again. Not again. She was going insane. His eyes pierced through her as if he could almost hear her thought process and he probably did. Enjoyed watching the fear run through her eyes and mused at how much she struggled to hide them. He was always perceptive; being able to perceive her general emotion for the day from a brief examination of her face.

She did what she always did. Bringing up her hand to cup his cheek, she felt him lean in to the touch ever so slightly.

“Sure.” She lied. Inside, she was screaming.

_-End-_

* * *

Anne stared at the front page of ‘The Gotham Times’ with a dominating picture of a very familiar man dressed in suit in the centre and bold capital lettered title struck across the heading to capture the reader’s attention with their scandal for the day.

**BRUCE WAYNE BACK FROM THE DEAD.**

**_T_ ** _he thought to be dead heir to the vast Wayne Empire has recently made his shocking re-appearance to the world, not long after the Wayne Enterprise held its initial public offering (IPO). It was previously reported that the reclusive billionaire was declared ‘dead’…_

_…son of late philanthropist and surgeon Thomas Wayne and beloved Martha Wayne (nee Stewart) who was an avid advocate to the right and safety of children…_

_…murdered by Joe Chill, during attempted burglary on the fateful night that shook the people of Gotham and spurned great mourning at the loss of the Gotham’s treasure. The tragedy triggered exhaustive media coverage of their lives and death…_

Anne slammed the paper on to the table, faced down as to hide the page and ran to quickly open the window. She craned her neck out the window and drank down the air as if she had her head down too long under water. Faint ringing in her ears, her arms shot out to grab the ledge of the window for balance.

She didn’t want to believe it. It can’t be true. Please no. Her breath was becoming more erratic and she was feeling more light headed as seconds went by. It can’t be. She was so content in her little world of denial and she would have liked it a bit more time.

“Are you alright, Anne?”

She twirled in surprise. Dr. Crane seemed surprised to see this type of emotion in her. Her eyes were rimmed with tears and fear.

* * *

_-Present-_

She hated waking up the next day after the ‘crazy’ night. It felt like waking up with a hangover only it was thousands times worse and more painful. She always woke up hot to the touch, sweaty and sticky like she had been crying and perspiring throughout the whole night like she took too much dose of a pill.

As expected, she saw the psychiatrist sitting on the foot of her bed with a new dress and a plate of breakfast.

“When did your father abandoned you?”

He never mentioned what had transpired during her little episode of fear. Until now.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You always repeat those words.” He revealed monotonously, “’Come back. Please come back. Don’t leave me. Why don’t you like me?’”

She recognised those phrases. Only it always held some sort of emotions. Those longing-filled phrases have been etched into her childhood journal until she eventually grew out of waiting for someone that will never come back. She always thought she moved on from that.

Anne stared at him. He seemed expectant. She never told anyone about herself. Not even him.

“The man that contributed to half of my existence left us when I was three. The last time I saw him was my fifth grade graduation. Turned out that he had another family in another country – a real one. Apparently he drinks and smokes a lot. I’d write those words in my diary as a child. I think it’s funny. Even though I don’t care now…thought I didn’t… looks like it’s impacted me in a way that I didn’t know. Do you think I might have a daddy issue?” She randomly asked.

“An absence of a parent so young will undoubtedly influence your outlook toward relationship to the world. That is inevitable.” He shifted so that he could fully face her, “You see yourself unworthy. Too scared to open yourself up to others..and yourself; too scared you might discover something you won’t like within. Always fearful of being left alone. You still hope he might come back one day. I suggest you throw those hopes away, no matter how small it may be. You are, in his eyes, nothing, but a constant reminder of his little carless, mistake.”

His words cut inside her deep than any bullets or swords could. Probing and prickling scabbed wounds, he wanted her to cry and he succeeded. He was right. She was nothing to that man and the knowledge haunted her like a phantom limb to an amputee and no matter how nonchalant she acted toward the subject, the ache was always there in the back of her mind like a looming shadow.

“How about you, Doctor?” She only called him that when she was being playful. Or spiteful, “They say the best shrinks are those who are messed up themselves.”

He only gave her a lopsided smile, “Curiosity killed the cat, Anne.”

“Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back.”

“Cats have nine lives; humans only have one.”

“I thought the patient-therapist relationship went both ways.”

“It’s more unequal than we make it out to be.”

* * *

The first time she saw his mask, she was frozen on the spot. She should have jumped out of the window the moment the question: “Would you like to see my mask?”

She should have. Broken limbs were much more better than the nightmarish torture she was experiencing.

And before she knew it, she was being transferred in an ambulance and onto the restrained hospital bed in psychiatric ward.

That night, Anne Reyes vanished.

Her unconscious body was smuggled into the basement of Arkham Asylum and into the cage that has been specially made for Crane’s special subjects.

Something told her Crane had kidnapped her for other reason than keeping her around as a mere subject. It was in the way he gave her that look sometimes from the bars of her chain, the way his eyes followed her movements and the way he seemed to spend more time with her than any of his other patients. If there was a food she wanted, he got them and she doubted other inmates’ privilege didn’t even come close to hers’.

“If I asked you to kill me, will you?”

The doctor seemed surprised at the question.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to live.” She simply said.

“Now why would I waste such a good subject?”

She gave him her best coy smile, “Am I really just a subject, Scarecrow?”

“Anne.” He warned, but he made no attempted to back away from the closeness she had created.

Tipping her toes, her lip hovered above his. She could feel his breath mingle with hers. Anne traced her finger to his lip then stared up into his ocean-filled eyes.

“I want to see your mask...Scarecrow.”

His pupils were dilated.

_-End-_


	5. Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our brain associate memories and emotions most accurately through the sense of smell. Hearing is the last sense that goes away when we die and sight is what we rely on the most but when it comes to emotions, the sense of smell is the most accurate. It is the most basic of all sense. In fact, when babies are used as talents for commercials, whoever will play the mother is asked to wear the perfume and/or clothes of the real mother as it helps the baby feel comfortable.
> 
> Using the same element here, Jonathan and later on, Bruce distinctly identifies this girl to be different from everyone else because his sense, the one that really identifies the correct emotion to the correct person tells him so. "Human" is an abused word. We all think that having a skin wraps our bones and the blood that flows through our vain already makes us human. It doesn't. It makes a us living creature, being human is a very different thing. This argument is philosophical, of course and I put this into some sort of precept:
> 
> "You have the scent of a human, an untainted and natural person in this complex world" It's a revelation on how some sees humanity; mere existence makes them human.

_-Present-_

Anne hoped she wasn't developing a case of Stockholm syndrome. Maybe being dropped into a fictional world was too much for her mind to handle. Maybe being kidnapped after being dropped into a fictional world was enough to snap her already fragile mind. That probably is the reason.

Her relationship with the crazy doctor was a weird, puzzling thing. It definitely wasn't friendship or love and it wasn't just lust either. Fascination perhaps? She liked his face and his eyes because it was pleasant to look at. He was, after all, in her world a celebrity. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her. She knew he was obsessed with fear. Maybe a bit of a fetish for it as well seeing how turned on he was when she asked to see the mask. He took out his mask, put them on and sprayed her with that fear gas like a little 17 year old virgin boy flinging himself out of his trousers when the girl told him to come over because her parents weren't home.

She didn't enjoy what happened after, that's for sure. Going twice in a row was something she won't try it again. Ever.

He came again carrying her dinner and sat it down on her table. Anne was a bit surprised when she saw her dinner. It was a lovely looking steak..and a dessert. Her favourite. Normally she would eat, presumably what other of his subjects would eat. It hadn't take long for her to figure out that she was probably at his hospital, seeing that he would often have on his white coat with hospital ID and sometimes not. And he would probably have to be near her to visit her as often he did between his work schedules.

"I hope it's medium-rare."

"Of course." He replied matter-of-factly, "I know medium-rare steak is your favourite. Besides, I've no respect for anyone that asks for it well-done."

"How clever of you, Doctor." She smiled as she cut the steak into little bite bits, "You also knew of my sweet tooth."

He loved hearing compliments. Most, if not all, villains had a streak of arrogance in them. Came with their villain status it seemed.

The expensive cut of meat melted in her mouth like butter. It had been a long time since she had such a meal and it was heavenly.

"Is this what I'm going to get whenever I ask to see your mask?"

"A compliant subject is hard to come by these days." He smiled.

"I'm your first." She grinned, aware her words also could mean another.

_-End-_

* * *

"No fingerprints, no DNA, no medical records. Nothing." Dr. Jonathan Crane read out the report across her with genuine confusion, "That is…certainly unusual."

Their 15th sessions now. She dreaded more to come.

"When can I stop this?"

"When you get better."

"I am better."

"Self-judgement isn't always most accurate."

"So can a professional's."

"I earned the right to make this judgement, Anne."

"What did you write for your dissertation?" She asked out of sudden curiosity and saw his eyes lightened up like a child on a Christmas morning.

"PhD. It was about the etiology of the fear reflex in primary mammals." He smiled excitedly.

"Mammals, huh." Anne hummed, "Don't tell me humans are included in that list."

"Of course," He declaimed, "Testing on animals can only go so far. Humans are…complex, unpredictable which makes them an interesting subject. Don't you think so?"

"Depending on whether it was done ethically."

There was a slight grimace at the word 'ethically', dismissing it with his hand, "Ethics – they are so subjective. A nuisance. Something to hide behind so that we feel better about ourselves that we're not as bad as we think we are. If we did things 'ethically', we wouldn't have achieved what we have today."

"So is that why you're forcing me to attend these sessions?" She frowned in anger, "Because hell with ethics?"

"I'm not forcing you, Anne. They are." He nodded toward the closed door where the workers were busy running up and down, some on the phone and others carrying their loads of work. The people who knew no better about this man and what he was capable of; who simply wanted the best for their clients – who wanted best for her. A good willed goal, but naïve as to what they were actually dealing with and overestimating their ability to deal with the consequences.

Grudgingly, he was right. He was a snake with words. Perhaps it came with his job. Perhaps it was all him.

"And what was the conclusion?"

"Fear is the basis of all humanity's errors and should be cured."

Her face darkened with trepidation, asking hesitantly, "How do you cure..fear?"

"Conquering your worse fears by facing them."

* * *

_-Present-_

Cillian Murphy. That was the actor's name. She remembered it now. The first time they kissed was the day he came close to unearthing her secret. Anne initiated it first. It wasn't every day you can say that you kissed Cillian Murphy. Well, the character he plays but it was his face and eyes and lips she was seeing and feeling.

She was woken up by a cold, tender touch on her arm. As usual after a night of uncontrollable terror, her whole body ached and tensed. The room messy, clothes draped on the floor and bed, few utensils in her bare room scattered and shattered throughout from her fear-induced panic tantrum.

"What do you mean 'I'm not from this world'?" This time, he wore his white coat with his ID badge clasped on the breast pocket. He looked more like a model shooting a sexy doctor themed photo shoot than an actual one.

"I don't remember." She quickly replied.

"Those weren't the only thing you said, Anne." His voice was low and controlled. He didn't believe her. It was moment like this you had to be careful. And truthful. Angry Dr. Jonathan Crane was a very scary Scarecrow.

"I-I don't feel like I belong here." She managed to think out an excuse, "I can't remember who I am, what I was, nothing…I feel like I never existed here in the first place. I'm scared to be..nothing."

A great lie was the one closest to the truth.

He seemed to ponder on her answer but she could see his mind working in direction she didn't want him to go.

What else did she say? She can't remember anything. All she can remember is her greatest nightmare and fears exploding all at once and her screaming and crying, unable to do anything other than destroy few measly pieces of furniture.

"Jonathan…" She called his name. No. "Scarecrow."

He snapped out from his thought at the sound of his name. His true name. His true self. Since a long time, Jonathan Crane became a mask. Or maybe there wasn't Jonathan Crane in him; just Scarecrow. Who knows?

"Help..me.." She pleaded, grasping his white sleeve and tugging it toward her. Don't think too much. Don't think. Stop thinking. She silently begged.

"I will do my best." He said with assurance and she could see the distance in his eyes appearing as he slowly disappeared to his calculating mind once again.

Bring him out. Bring him out.

Her arms snaked their way up to his neck, feeling his soft hair at the base of his neckline. Their breath mingled and he silently studied her, having been brought out again, waiting.

"Scarecrow." She breathed out before closing the distance for a long, drugging kiss. He didn't seem to respond as she shyly licked and teased the entrance of his mouth for permission. A few seconds later she felt his mouth move against her, his hands caressing up and down her body before resting on her waist and inner thigh.

Then, he ripped himself away as though electric shock arced through him. She nearly fell forward from the loss of support before her arms snapped into a crouch to heave her weight up.

Jonathan's back was turned so that she could not read his expression although his voice was strained from reigning back his nearly loss of control.

"Eat your food."

With a slam of the door and the click-clank of the lock, his footsteps hurried down the corridor until her ears couldn't pick up any sounds. She was alone again. A small smirk lined her mouth. Her secret was safe for now.

_-End-_

* * *

Crimes in Gotham were disgustingly rife. At least in the poverty laden East End. Gun, violence, and prostitutions thrived here and it was not uncommon to hear a gunshot in the middle of the night (or day) or ruckus of fighting or tell-tale smells of drugs being smoked and empty syringe lying about on the floor of the accommodation despite their strict no-drug-or-alcohol-on-premise policy. But in spite of the high crime rates, it was sufficiently low that the average person wasn't always seriously impacted and many – including her – had adopted the ignorant-is-bliss 'It won't happen to me' mind-set and kept on trucking.

"Anne," Emma called out to her while holding up a thick file of paper, "So I got the paper work for the local, if you're ready we can fill this together and..let the battle begin."

Anne took the file from her and it was heavy than she expected. Much heavier than it should be. She doesn't know how she should feel about this. This was one step forward to establish her place in this world. It also meant her place in her world was slowly falling apart. Maybe it already disappeared – she wasn't the most noticed person; a wallflower. Plain. Old. Torn. One that will be painted on top and cleaved beneath a newer, expensive and more pleasantly looking one.

"–ne? Anne!"

Anne blinked as she came back down from her little internal dialogue and saw lines of worry slowly etched on Emma's face.

"Are you alright?" She asked as she firmly grabbed on Anne's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Yeah, I-I'm fine, just..you know, I can't believe this is actually happening."

"Right!" Emma grinned excitedly, "If you have time now, we can fill this together."

Anne forced a smile and nodded, "Sure."

* * *

_-Present-_

She knew their kiss affected him more than it affected her even if he seemed nonchalant the next day. She could tell by the way he reacted; it was very likely to be his first kiss.

His first something.

The man, no matter how crazy he might appear, was clearly human. Rare as it may be, emotions can be evoked of him. Like he had said, mind was powerful as is his dexterity with it. Having honed his capacity to attune himself wholly with people within his range with a menacing effectiveness like a true Stoic, something previously experienced would be usurped into one of many categorised records swiftly. But something like this? A kiss? To the doctor, it was a formula for instability and something that he can be controlled. To a man who is so reserved and adamant to avoid facets of vulnerability, this was a death sentence.

He came in and sat down on the armchair across hers' near her bed that was reserved for their weekly sessions. She, on the other hand, strolled up and down from one corner of the wall to the end and back again. It was the only little activity she could do here other than reading which she rarely did. He gave her medical textbooks. _Medical textbook_. And his published researches on fear. Who does that? Why would you do that? Not that she was an idiot but she certainly wasn't intelligent enough to open a medical journal and go 'ah, oh, this is awesome! So revolutionary!'

The two was content with this little moment of disconnection where they simply ignored each other until they decided in their mind what needed to be sorted were sorted before they could acknowledge their respective presence in the room.

But even as he flipped through his other patient's file, she could feel his eyes would often glance up and follow her moves. He didn't do that before. Once he opened his patient file, all his attention was diverted to that paper. It was a little change like that she noticed. Anne walked around the room for ten more minutes before settling down on her chair.

"Why am I here, Scarecrow?"

"To get you better." He simply answered.

"You said that last time. When will I get better?"

"When you conquer your fears."

"If I conquer my fear, will you let me go?"

"I feared scarecrow," He revealed, surprising her, "And now we are one. Can't you see what I'm trying to do for you?"

"Why me?"

"You've been my best subject so far, Anne, don't disappoint me now." His eyes darkened with warning, "Shall we start our session for this morning?"

"I want to do something different today." Anne ventured.

"And what would that be?" He tilted his head.

"You said patient-therapist relationship is unequal. I want to change that."

His lips pursed into thin line, jaw clenched, "This isn't something you can decide."

"You ask me one question, I'll answer them truthfully. I ask you question and you do the same."

He stilled at the proposition, "Why? Why the sudden honesty?"

"You got questions, I got answers; you got answers, I have questions." She told him rhythmically, "I want to know you. Don't you want to know more about me?"

He remained still in his seat with flat, veiled countenance.

 _D_ _on't leave anything out. Don't spare no details and say what you want. I'm not fragile._ She patiently waited for his answer. _Give me something, something to figure out._

_-End-_

* * *

"Anne," Emma knocked the open door, standing outside at the tiny bunk bedroom she shared with another girl of her age.

She turned away from the window that looked out on to the stretch of the Gotham River and its high rise towers and buildings situated in Mid- and Uptown. Even from this distance, the Wayne enterprise could be clearly seen, being one of few tallest out of all. It looked as if it were about to pierce the sky.

"There's someone that's willing to help us."

A woman, possibly a bit older or younger than her, with shoulder length brown hair and eyes; simple yet feminine formal suit and in her hand, she carried a work suitcase.

Holy shit, it was Katie Holmes.

"This is Rachel Dawes, a volunteer lawyer that often helps us out whenever she can." Emma gave a fond glance toward Rachel, "Even though she's so busy, she always makes time for us, which is really nice and we're very grateful of."

"It's no problem, Emma." Rachel returned the smile, "Hello Miss. Reyes, I'll be your lawyer for the upcoming trial."

Anne simply stared at her for a long time.

* * *

_-Present-_

"What is your name?" Jonathan Crane asked.

"Anne Reyes." She said then smiled at the pointed look he gave her, "It's really Anne Reyes."

It was her turn. "How old are you?"

"34." He curtly answered.

"Were there really a head injury?"

"…No." She slowly shook her head. "Where are you from?"

"Georgia."

"You don't sound Southern."

"I trained it out. Where were you born?"

"I was born in Philippines but came to US with my mum and my two siblings when I was five."

"Why did you decide to become a psychiatrist?"

"I respect the power mind has over the body." He gave a simple, curt answer then asked, "Where in the US did you reside?"

"Chicago."

"Do you have a family?" Anne asked curiously.

His jaw clenched, a shot of anger flashed through his eyes, "None."

"How did you ended up here?"

Anne's eyes clenched shut before opening them to meet his striking blue eyes, "I woke up in Gotham with no memory of how I got there."

"Details." He articulated.

"I was on my way home, waiting for my train. All I saw was oncoming train and its headlight being bright than usual and just falling..then I woke up here."

"You said truth." He reminded her with narrowed eyes.

"It is the truth." She said, baring herself to him so that he could read her easily, "You should know."

They took a moment of break from the questioning to allow the implication sink in. She wondered what he was thinking behind his stoic expression. He was tricky to read most of the time. His eyes were the only expressive part of him she could get an understanding as to how he might be feeling.

"I want to know more about your family."

"Like what?" He shifted in his seat.

"Who looked after you?"

"My great-grandmother."

"You don't seem to like her."

"The woman was a religious fanatic and abusive solely for the fact that I was born out of wedlock. I ran away to Gotham." His tone remained neutral and distant, almost story-telling like as though he was reading out his patient's prescription.

See? Villain trademark of screwed up childhood. Youth often shaped the corrupt. She thought.

"And why is it that you cannot go to Chicago to see your family?"

"They don't exist here." Paused for a dramatic effect before adding, "In this world."

He paused for a long time. The two sat, in silent, their eyes glued onto each other.

"Are you implicating, Miss Reyes, that you somehow..magically transported to Gotham?"

She blinked, thinking.

Nodded, "Yeah, seems like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a small project of mine that I ended up starting when I was into Batman fandom so the update will be irregular as this is more of 'I-feel-like-writing-today'.


	6. This Be The Verse

"I submitted the petition for name change." Anne revealed, starting their first discussion of their 30th session, "The hearing is in few months."

"I've heard. Emma had asked me to attend to attest your case. I'm happy for you." The doctor replied formally with a modest smile.

Their dialogue abruptly ended after that when she did not say anything afterward.

"I need you to open up to me, Anne, if I am going to attest at court to say you are who you are without doubt, I need to know you." His tone was flat, lined with irritation and less genuine implicate. This was his way of threatening her.

"I don't like beating around the bush." Anne retorted, "If you're going to threaten me, then do it outright instead of using intricate words."

"I'm not threatening you. I'm only pointing out the fact despite many sessions already, you're still closed up. It seemed you're..afraid to let people in."

Anne leaned forward, gaze unwavering.

"Just you."

* * *

**_ -Present- _ **

Catharsis was a high like no other.

As she spent more time in this little prison of hers', lying on the stiff, creaky bed staring at the ceiling, a thought 'what is there to lose if I told this man my deepest secret?' would float in her mind. Would he force her to reveal what she knew? Will he do anything? Can he do anything? Would he?

"So now you know why I can't do anything."

"What is your world like?"

"Same as here. Just there are no heroes or villains like Batman or you."

Bored, she played with the strand of her hair and realised her hair had become grown longer than she would have liked. Before, her hair was shoulder length now it was reaching her lower back.

"I need scissors. My hair is too long."

"I prefer it long."

"I like it short." She smiled at him playfully before standing up, strolled to her bed beside his chair and flopped herself on her stomach onto the hard, rigid mattress.

"You know the rules, Anne. No lying down during session."

She turned her head toward him, the elevation of the bed allowed her to meet him in his eyelevel.

"Why Scarecrow?" Anne asked, puzzled, "When did Jonathan become the Scarecrow?"

His face was unreadable except the intensity in his eyes which told her she asked the right question.

"Anne, get back to your seat." He ordered.

"So uptight.." She muttered under her breath as she sat back down to her chair.

"Tell me about your father."

She stilled, shooting him a glare at his timed attack. "What about him?"

"How did it feel when you saw him? When he told you that you were a mistake that should've never been born. The fear you feel in your every actions because you can't shake off the thought that that is your father's fault."

Her jaw clenched, avoiding his gaze as she desperately tried to hold down her tears. Her fingers curled into fists, sharp nails digging into the linen. She never told him that; she never told anyone – he must have heard it from one of his fear induced session. With encyclopaedic ken over men's reasoning, he tastefully disentangled the mind in sessions ranging from trivial discourse to an hour appointments. She hated that of him.

"You can be such an asshole, Jonathan."

**_ -End- _ **

* * *

Absent father figure. A single mother who worked 5 to 5 to provide her three children a roof over their head, food, medical and education while inevitably neglecting the investment of their child's emotional growth and needs. So it was not a surprise when those children fell into a cliff of addiction, aggression and crime.

But unsurprisingly, these children in such environment can also walk a path different from the so-called-typical expectation. By becoming successful or, at least, stable. Thankfully, she and her sibling were those so-called 'atypical' ones. Whatever that meant.

Sort of.

Her older sister graduated from an Ivy League and went onto become an accountant at a typical prestigious, conglomerate firm while her younger brother secured a scholarship at Harvard Law. She, on the other hand, went to high school, failed the same class twice and settled down as a librarian. Although not as buoyant as her siblings, it was better than working as a waitress that barely paid for her dingy, one room apartment. This was then followed by strings of ugly, short relationship with guys who were too messed up for her or she was too messed up for them. Her kind of guys tended to be either someone too caught up with their past – like her – or guys who think the greatest happiness in the world was a thirty minute high, who thought life was bitter and alcohol were sweeter and liked to show off their great right hook on her. The guys she let it slip away were the one she could see some sort of happy, ordinary future with – a white picket fence, 2.5 children – 2 boys and a baby girl, and a golden Labrador. She always blamed it on her weird, tricky personality.

Anne wanted to forget about her 15 year old self finding the man in a fade away picture kept behind the secret hiding place in the back of the family album only her mum and unbeknownst to her, Anne knew.

Digging through Facebook, looking up on his address and travelling seven hour bus ride to knock on his door only to find his wife answering with their new-born baby in her arms, him coming up to the door and showing him the picture of himself with her mum and seeing the colour in his face wash away as he quickly close the door behind him, pulling her down to the foot of their door steps then stating with rage and disgust that her mum was just a fling, a careless mistake – just like her and her other sibling – that he was not her dad or anyone's except his real family behind his shoulders; to go away and never look for him again. She walked away.

She wanted to forget how she, out of all her sibling, resembled him the most; his eyes, his nose, his lips and even his ears were hers'. What would happen if she cut them away? She can learn to live blind. Their nose? Their lips and ears? Was it possible?

She wanted to forget that. From then on her life seemed to spiral down and further down.

She failed her test? Like most other students, she procrastinated and thought cramming it all in one night would be enough. She didn't go to university? So did many other students and look how well they turned out! Life isn't about a degree! She likes bad boys? So do other girls! She rebelled by fighting, drinking, smoking and having flings and generally did silly, stupid things. Lots of teenagers go through that stage and they'll grow out of it someday. For some, it last longer. Not having a dad isn't a big deal.

Besides, she doesn't have any memories of him. She never knew what it's liked to have a father. It'd be understandable if she had one then lost it then everything she did probably would make sense. A little teenage rebellion for the sense of loss she felt it was unjustly taken away from her.

Ah…living was such a bother.

* * *

The fifth time she met Rachel Dawes was one afternoon, humid and sunny, generally a nice day for a picnic. There was one woman that was a regular in-out at the centre. Always well dressed – custom-tailored and designer of course, well-manicured and carrying collections of exotic Birkins. The sort of woman she could see herself becoming has she married one of those 'too good for her' guys. Well put together – from the outside.

Inside, that woman was an absolute erratic fucking mess.

Her problem, as she rightly suspected at first, was her husband. High powered financial executive. Nice penthouse in the upper part of Gotham. Probably earned at least seven figures a year plus bonus. Lived a nice life not many people would get to in this lifetime. The husband controlled the numbers. And his wife it seemed. Seeing she was wearing a sunglass today, she probably has a black eye on either one or both of her eyes.

Emma had told her that the woman liked to come to their centre because it was so far from the life they lived in. After all, among the seas of junkies and homeless who didn't had time to poke their noses into others' business when theirs own were so consuming; who had time to go to the reporter and spill the juicy beans? Who would recognise her anyway, when they were so immersed in finding their own path or the next fix or their next meal, to have a time to seat down and open up a gossip magazine? What were the chances of her meeting the ladies in her circle in this unladylike and un-high society hell hole? In here, she was just another faceless woman with a thorny problem that many other women shared.

"This is her, what, thirtieth time?" The worker who had a penchant for blather, Rose, said to Jeantique, another girl she hung out with closely.

"She donates a lot to us so we don't have any problem with her coming in and out." Jeantique replied, "But when she does come in…one..two…three..–"

Another woman, a familiar face, stumbled in ungracefully following the more poised, reserved lady. Anne's throat tightened as she recognised Rachael Dawes even though this wasn't her first or second time meeting her. That face should have been normalised.

But it wasn't.

She knew why Rachael came. It was because of that rich lady. Rachael, the lady's confidant/lawyer, was adamant that the man paid for his crime toward his wife and came along every time the lady ran away after a violent argument. Rachel followed after her, vying to press long overdue charges. Then few days after, the lady would get a call or a nice, expensive present and a letter obviously written by his secretary asking her to come back, that he was truly sorry and this would be the last time of what had been and what will happen again in the sooner future. And every time, she went back. Got up, dressed and walked out without saying anything to anyone or looking back, into her chauffeur driven Rolls-Royce. Then she would hand in a written statement stating she does not want any charges against him and everything was dropped and silently swept under the carpet. And every several times a month she'd play this mad carousel again.

Anne researched this woman; a housewife with two children all grown up and worked in financial sector like their father did. So she wasn't staying because of children. She suspected the woman was tied in a strict pre-nuptial contract with her expanses strictly controlled whilst she's still married to him. She's probably right. With her last boyfriend, that's what he exactly did; gave her exactly what she wanted – stability, a semblance of something normal – and made her felt, without him, she'll never have that security; that she, alone, wasn't capable. It took her a long time to escape that mind-set.

"Why are you forgiving him?" Rachel bit out in frustration, "How long will you let him do this to you?"

The lady stilled. Expression unreadable from the large Chanel sunglasses that framed her lovely face, before continuing toward her exclusive, more spacious, nicer room separated from the others up the stairs.

"Coffee?" Anne approached, offering her black caffeine with two sugars just as Anne knew Rachael liked.

Rachael stared at the dark, bitter liquid before accepting it with a 'Thank you, Anne'. She gulped it down in one go.

"What are you going to do?" Anne asked, curious.

"I'll try and convince her. If not, I'll try and see if there's anything I could do." Then added with disgust, "Man like him think he can do what he wants and get away because he has money, that's not how the law works."

"You shouldn't do that." Anne said, surprising Rachael and before she could ask, she elaborated, "At times, fighting for justice and helping the weak can clash. As in this case. In many domestic abuse cases, arresting the husband who is the breadwinner results in the rest of the family having to struggle to sustain themselves – maybe they had pre-nup or whatever and she'll get nothing, maybe there's something else." Meeting Rachael's eyes, "Her writing that statement doesn't mean she forgave him. We all know that. We're only pretending not to know because we want her to make a choice…between staying inside the thorny walls and braving the thorn bush by stepping out of those walls. People like us who are sitting in a field of pretty flowers don't have the right to tell her what to do. You want to indict and arrest him without such rights? That's not justice. It's foolish bravery. Not knowing the difference between that means they don't have the right to be an attorney."

She can be such a blunt bitch. But she's been wanted to say this for a month now.

"Miss. Dawes. It's lovely to meet you here." Jonathan spoke up from behind them, startling the pair despite his quiet monotonous voice.

How long has he been there for?

* * *

**_ -Present- _ **

He's not used to being touched. Anne noted. Others, who may not know him, might see it as aversion rather than unversed. Perhaps it was both. Testing the waters, he was tolerant of her touch on his hands or face or even his hair but other than that, it was off limit unless he permitted it.

Today, it was another session of 'fear'. She knew. Because he was always excited when it was and she could almost see something semblance to impatience and glee in his eyes the moment he walked through the door.

"Can you die from fear?" She decided to ask.

"Absolutely." He answered without hesitance, even with a bit of delight.

"Can I die from fear?"

He paused. Thinking. Even though he already knew the answer, he did so to agonise her with perturbation.

Well they say two can play the game.

"It depends on the individual's ability to compartmentalise the experience and their mentality." He said, "But like I said before, I gave you a carefully controlled dosage. Are you afraid? Of dying that is."

"Maybe. I don't' know." She shrugged after giving it a long thought, "Seems like it'd be a peaceful event. I don't think there's much to lose with me not being in this world, eh?"

"How long have you felt that way?"

"For a long time I think." She said while standing up from the bed she had been sitting on and walked toward Jonathan.

Reaching up her arms to his face, she gently removed his glasses to see his eyes better.

"You have such a pretty eyes." She commented and tip toed up to level out their height difference. Wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him down toward her without breaking contact, she muttered, "Before I die." Closing her eyes, she guided him in for a gentle kiss.


End file.
